Try Sleeping With A Broken Heart

My mother died of a broken heart. She did I tell you.

Never have I had something occupy 90% of my time like I have my mother's passing. By God were we played. But even the thought of her being in a 'better place' or our ability to get on without her hasn't been able to calm my aching heart. No amount of crying has dulled the pain. I look at everyone who's lost a mother and wonder how they are living so normally. How do they do it? Are they pretending? What is it that was so precious about my own mother that I cannot bring myself to think of her as dead? Is there a percentile of people who just cannot cope with death? Am I it?

She definitely died of a broken heart. She who had never been so much as admitted in hospital since she had my brother in 1988. It was too much for her to take.

I remember when I had my 2nd child through emergency C-section, my mother was so apprehensive. She and my aunt sat outside the theatre and nearly flipped a nerve when the nurse wouldn't let them see my son after the delivery. I was still in recovery. My husband was miles away in another country working. A nurse left theatre with the little man, rushing him to the nursery and my mother let her have it. "We have to look at him! We have a right to see him and confirm that he's ours!". Boy did she let a nurse have it! And see the baby, she did. She made sure to note all his features "Lest they decide to switch him with someone else's". I eventually awoke from the operation and was taken to my
room, my mother in tow. There with me, alone, she sat till I was fully awake and on till she was sure someone else would be there with me. She offered to spend the night, but I declined. My mother didn't drive. She was frugal. Choosing instead to use public transport. I was in a hospital in South B. My mother lived on Thika Road and it was about 7pm when she eventually left the hospital.

It must have broken her heart that night in that God-forsaken hospital. It broke her heart so bad, she chose to die!

Let me help you understand just who my mother was. She was quite literally EVERYTHING to EVERYONE. She sacrificed so many things to make everyone comfortable. If I had a shilling for everyone that's come to us with stories of what my mother did for them, I'd probably be heading toward the 1000 shilling mark. Not much for money, but in people, that's a helluva lot! And I thought
I was the friendly one. Mum visited every sick relative in hospital, sent money for every harambee, attended every graduation, wedding and funeral. We knew an unexpected phone call from her would probably end in us contributing to buy a church pew or for someone's chemotherapy. We were so used to it. She'd say "I have this much, how much are you adding for me?" And "I'm broke" was not something you'd say to her. "I don't have a job, and I manage my money in a way that I can still put away some, you what are you doing with your money?" That was the response you'd get. We soon got the hang of it.

If there's anything we learnt from my mum, it was to give. To give and give and give. To give even to those who didn't deserve it. Especially to those. I can count off the top of my head a number of undeserving recipients of my mother's giving. Those that she gave her life for and who later spent their years trying to bring her down in word and deed. And yet, she kept giving. One of our latter visits upcountry before she died was to bury a young man in whom she'd invested so much in... despite a sour relationship with his family. She practically adopted him, right to the end. All we got from them when she died, was a text to say sorry. But that's alright. Now she knows. Doesn't she?

In a moment of deep heartache, my mum decided she'd had enough. How much more could she bear?

In her moment of deepest need. When she needed someone asking the hard questions like she'd done for us over and over again. When she needed someone to reach for the bell or call the nurse. When
she needed someone to call her doctor and consult him on whether all was well. In the moment that she needed someone asking if she was okay, if she needed a glass of water or wanted to use the bathroom.

In that aching moment of need, we walked away. We turned around and went home to sleep. We put our need to sleep, before her need to have us there. With the promise that we'd return the next day to do those very things.

She didn't wait around to see us live up to our promise. My mother died of a broken heart. Alone.

The Fallacy Of The Wedding

Today I reflect on the fallacy that is a wedding.

By God don't I feel cheated! My 3,000 bob manicure and 40,000 bob dress did not in any way open up my eyes to the entire fallacy of the day. When I walked down the aisle in my mother's arm, all dolled-up, I was convinced that that wedding was a perfect reflection of what would be my perfect marriage to my perfect man. And what a great start it would be!

Boy was I cheated.

I still think God chuckles at every bride wearing a 21,000 bob Brazilian weave imagining that the biggest of their problems will be a toilet seat left up, toothpaste squeezed from the centre of the tube and a tissue roll wrongly placed. "Yes, I know marriage is hard, but we love each other, we'll make it through TOGETHER." Nothing about that wedding prepares you for the day your husband in a fit of rage packs all his things and walks out on you and your two children. No perfectly crafted wedding cake will sort out a wife who constantly puts you down and spends her days killing whatever little is left of your dignity.

I was so not prepared.

My husband and I's very first fight would you believe it, was on Day 1 of our honeymoon. Oh for a heart to be a runaway wife! The thing is, I really didn't see IT coming. All the dancing and merry making of the previous day did not provide an inkling into what I thought was a fight deserving of a trip to a marriage counsellor followed by a visit to the lawyers to see what my options were. Boy did we fight! What did we fight about? I being the writer that I am, wanted to spend an hour or two after breakfast, journaling our favourite moments from the wedding while they were still fresh. Who doesn't want to sit on a porch facing the ocean, wind blowing the white curtains back and forth, 40 years later, reminiscing about the wedding while going through our journal? So I read to many Mills and Boons. Sue me! But who does not want that? My husband. He looked at me with that look that I now refer to as the Are-You-Out-Of-Your-Mind look of his, turned over and went in for a mid-morning nap.

Boy was I NOT prepared.

Are you KIDDING ME?? Is he serious!!! Who can I call? Should I call someone? He CAN'T do this to ME on OUR honeymoon!!! Should I text someone? Oh wait, we are supposed to be 'out of circulation'. What will they think of me? OF US?? Oh my God, WHAT did I just marry!! Needless to say, the back turning and going to sleep thing has since become a bit of a kawaida thing in our house. I do it, he does it, we both do it. Never that serious. If I don't like what you are saying, I turn my back on you and sleep. Suck it up! Dr. Gary Chapman would be so disappointed in me. In us! Oh my goodness, did I just say me? I meant US, WE, OURS! That's what the wedding tells us write? We hold hands the entire day with the cake lady screaming "Don't let go of her hand! From now on you hold that hand." I truly think that could have been the last time my husband and I held hands except for the occasional handshake. Yes we shake hands. No we don't hug at every opportunity and we most definitely do not kiss the bride!

Sigh.

If marriage was a true reflection of the wedding, then perhaps we'd all have near-perfect marriages where we sail in a maze of fresh flowers everyday (big up yourself if your husband brings you fresh flowers every day). We'd eat buffet meals prepared by top-notch chefs. We'd run late and find a smiling husband waiting for you in the car telling you how beautiful you look. And yes, oh yes, we'd drive off into the sunset soaking in the love and romance of the days to come. But you spent your first Christmas washing an endless assortment of dishes and cooking another ugali a size of which you'd never experienced in your life? And he spent his showing of his less than perfect wife to his family, right in time for her to ask "Gosh! How do you put on this paraffin lantern?? You guys don't have elec??" Hahahahahaha.

Nothing perfect there.

And yet there is no need for perfection in marriage. No pressure really. Where does God step in, if your husband doesn't occasionally slam the door behind him when he leaves, so angry that his lazy wife couldn't be up early enough to prepare him a gourmet breakfast. Where is God if his wife, doesn't click and make a face, imagining if he'd survive the non-stick pan making contact with the back of his head? His strength must be made perfect in our weakness. And through His grace, most of us get to fight another day, and another, and another...

And another.

The fallacy of the wedding. And yet the wedding is the single most important thing you'll do for your marriage. Because it is the wedding, amidst the song and dance, amidst the horse and carriage, amidst the something borrowed and something blue, that you vow, NEVER to walk out, never to give up, never to say it's over, until you die! Now you may get lucky and die right when you discover the man you married is a monster in disguise or your wife is Cruella D'Evil. But to be honest, you'll most likely have to live through that for the rest of your life. And that, my friends, is the truth! The fallacy of the wedding is imagining that you, can in your strength, a good budget and some excel sheets, work out a perfect marriage.

Maybe by His strength. And maybe not today. Hang in there.

Grieving Graciously

The other day I suggested to a friend that I want to write a book about Grieving Graciously. He laughed. Yes he did. His words were 'that one would never sell because grieving is seasonal.' I don't think he thought through his words before they left his mouth. Because he truly is a good friend. His words tore what was left of me to shred. In my usual signature way, I laughed back and that season of my life ended.

I don't think you can use a statement like 'grieving is seasonal' until you've truly been torn apart with grief. Losing my mum has almost literally killed me! There are days, I can barely breathe! I spend endless hours watching TV, numbing away reality and disappearing in a world created by the Bruckheimers of this world. I've made friends with Elizabeth Keen and Meredith Gray. I've beaten the system with Neal Caffrey and Raymond Reddington. I'm the Next Great Baker and the Voice. And when I leave the walls of my house, I'm good old dependable me. Sitting outside a theatre waiting for a friend to have a baby; everyone oblivious to how much it hurts to remember sitting outside a theatre waiting for my Mum to come out. Her finally coming out after a successful operation. And her dying an hour later.

When I leave the confines of my house, I'm a Christian. Not just your typical Sunday Christian. I'm the high-capacity-volunteer type Christian. I teach classes in church. I host bible studies. I pray and post bible verses and remind my life group to have their quiet time each Thursday. When I leave the dark hole that I've been in since 31.7.13, I smile. I sing. I pray. Everyone asks me how I'm REALLY doing, when they really can't take the answer. I smile. I say, I am well.

When I post on Facebook, I don't say how many times my husband has found me muffling my wails with a towel, sitting hopelessly on the bathroom floor. I say, God is good. I am blessed. It is well. Far be it from me that I should say what I really feel. That would be an indication of my spiritual immaturity, wouldn't it? Because good Christians believe in the happily ever after that salvation offers. "I loved her, but God loved her more". "She's in a better place". "It was God's will". Isn't that what we good Christians believe? Far be it from me that I should experience a pain so deep, that only my children experiencing the same pain would keep me away from actually killing myself.

No I'm not suicidal.

Good Christians, trust in God. He is Sovereign. He knows best. He has plans for good not for evil, to give me a hope and a future. Good Christians refer to Job's story to remind ourselves that we don't have it that bad. "At least she saw you all through school". "At least she met her grandchildren". "It could have been worse". (I know I'm doing all my fullstops and apostrophes wrong, indulge me). Good Christians don't quote the Psalms 115:3 "Our God sits in heaven, He does WHATEVER pleases him". That's my go-to verse you know. God owes me nothing! It's like my kids questioning me; don't I know what's good for them? I do IT for THEIR good.

But God played us.

God played us a good one! That He did. Oh my goodness were we played! I don't even think the death hurts as much as the feeling that we were played. A healthy, living, breathing woman, going from normal, to a fear of being seriously ill, to a confirmation that it's really nothing, to a routine operation, that was successful, to calling us all by name post-op and leaving her resting, to death. We were played. And that angers me just as badly as it hurts. And yet, it PLEASED God.

I'm broken.

But I'm a good Christian. I would be misrepresenting Him, if I said how I really felt. It would mean that I truly don't walk the walk. Reminds me of one of the first things a friend said in her bid to comfort me... "Why don't you question God when He does good things for you, and yet you get angry when He allows the bad?" If I'm going to remain a good Christian. If I want 121 likes each time I post something Godly that my friends identify with. If I don't lock myself in my room and refuse to get up and out and attend my weekly life group meeting as usual. If I don't post and share verses on whatsapp. If I so much as look like my hurt could be overwhelming me. If I use up my precious time with friends sharing about the pain of losing my mum.

The I would not be Grieving Graciously now would I?

A Tribute To Mom

Sometimes God calms the storms in our lives, but sometimes he just rides them with us. Either way, Blessed be the name of the Lord.

A couple of weeks ago, I was honoured to stand before and speak to a group of mothers' who have left or are considering leaving their full time jobs to raise their children. At the event I mentioned to those present that mum through our children drove all us children, all five of us, to school and back right till when we finished high school. She never missed a sports day, a swimming gala, a visiting day, a concert. Everyone present at the event gave my mum a standing ovation. Everyone acknowledged that we truly were raised by the best!

As I reflect on my mother's memory I am so blessed to have had her in my life. She was my special blessing, she showed me what real love felt like and looked like. If no one else ever loves me in this life, I know that I have been blessed to have felt love.

The day my mom passed on was a day such as this. Nothing out of the ordinary. Joe checked her into hospital at about 10.00am in the morning. My mother was a stickler for time. Unfortunately, I have never been. By the time I got there Joe and Mum had already been admitted and booked into a shared ward with three beds. We walked her there and put her neatly packed set of bags into the drawers and sat on the bed waiting. A nurse walked in and we all looked at her expectantly as she marveled asking “Kwani nani ndiyo mgonjwa hapa?” I suppose to her we all didn’t look quite like her usual patients. Mom giggled in her usual humility and said “Ni mimi”. The nurse, who by the choice of God shared a name with me, Janet, brought her the hospital attire. The last time my Mom was in a hospital gown was in 1988 when she had Joe; obviously she couldn’t figure out the gown, and I helped her get it done. Noting her discomfort, I poked fun at her. I said “Eh Mum, of all the uniforms they could give you, they chose Milimani Primary?” In reference to the brown gown. We had a good laugh. Joe who was chatting with my elder brother Ronn on whatsapp took out his phone and started taking pictures of us. At that point, mum leaned over the curtain and greeted the lady in the bed next to hers jovially “Habari Ya Jirani?” The lady who seemed to be in a lot of pain managed a smile and responded “Mzuri!”. A little while later, I thought that she may get cold and decided to run down to my house to get her a pair of socks and an extra blanket. As Joe and I left to make a quick dash to the house, my mum asked us to fetch her bible from her bag for her to read while we were away.

So we went to fetch some socks and those who know me and my mum, must be smiling now. I take pride in having the largest collection of brightly coloured, odd-looking socks on this side of the continent. So even I had a difficult time deciding what my Mum would approve of from my collection. Still, we settled on a long pair of warm green socks for her and returned to the hospital. We found her just as we left her, soaking in God’s word.  I showed her the socks expecting her usual reaction of near-embarassment, but instead I got a huge smile, a thank-you and a “These are nice socks! Can I keep them?” Joe and I looked at each other in amazement. Sue joined us after her shift and the fun continued. We ate chips hoping not to get caught and laughed about everything under the sun.

At about 3pm a nurse came in to take her stats and prepare her for theatre. At that point she began to ask us to remain united, to stay strong, to keep praying… and she handed me a bag and asked me to take good care of it and only to open it incase of an emergency. We all dismissed her with our usual banter “Eh Mum, you’ll outlive all of us, you will be fine. You will still be here for Noa’s wedding”. Still she continued. She spoke of how happy she was that she had spoken to Ronn that morning. She spoke about how she wanted our graduation pictures hang on the dining room including precise instructions on how to arrange them. She spoke, we listened, but we didn’t hear.

Eventually the time came for her to go to theatre. Sue said a prayer and followed her to as far as they would let her. After that we had the longest wait of our lives. A few of our friends and our Aunty Sellah came to keep us company and we dulled our anxiety with endless stories. The surgery was to take 2-3 hours. After 4 hours, we began to worry that something could have gone wrong and we sent Sue to find out. She came back with the best news ever. The surgery had been a complete success and Mum had actually been in recovery for 2 of the four hours we’d been waiting. She was soon wheeled back to her bed and we went in to see her. She called each of us by name, all seven of us, and greeted us. Even in her pain, she was hospitable. She told us that the surgery was a success and we rejoiced with her. Because she was heavily sedated, we thought it best to allow her to rest. Joe said a prayer and we left her in the best hands we could – in God’s hands.

You can understand our absolute shock and devastation when the hospital called us at 1.30am in the night to let us know that Mum had passed on an hour after we left her. I have walked through the events of that day in every still moment since she passed on. I have cursed the day we walked into that hospital, I have cried bitterly at the thought that in my mum’s moment of weakness, when she needed me the most, I chose to go home and rest. My mum, who had been there for us all our lives, left this world on her own. Like Jesus at the crucifixion I literally have descended to hell.

PAUSE.

But I have refused to remain there. Mum left this world on Her terms. Only someone who walks that closely with God, gets to leave this world on their terms. I know for a fact, that when we walked out of that hospital, God showed Himself to her, and He asked her if she was ready to leave this world. I know for a fact, that Mum thought about all of us, her mum, her siblings, her children, her grandchildren, she knew we’d be fine and she said Yes Lord, let your will be done. And He in turn peacefully carried her into eternity.

Kazi ya Mungu haina makosa. The Bible that my mum loved so much says in Isaiah 57: 1-2 The righteous perish, and no one takes it to heart, the devout are taken away, and no one understands

that the righteous are taken away to be spared from evil. 2 Those who walk uprightly

enter into peace; they find rest as they lie in death. If you look at Mum right now, you can tell she is at peace, at home, she has found rest.

We may not have been prepared, we never thought it would happen, definitely not this soon, but Mum was more than prepared. And just so you understand just how closely she walked with God on the eve of her passing she wrote us a note and left it on the desktop of her computer where she knew we’d find it.

She also made sure to leave us accountable to the people she felt wouldn’t mind having us in their lives. The people who have held us when the grief threatened to overwhelm us, who have been present with us throughout every stage of mourning our beloved, even when they themselves had every right to mourn. Like Jesus on the cross gave his Mother a son and his beloved disciple a mother, mum gave us over to the people she loved and trusted. Aunty Pam, now, like your mother, you have nine children. Uncle Josiah and Aunty Sellah now you have ten. Mum knew you were upto the task, and we trust her judgement completely.  But you can be sure you have it easy. She already did all the work. She has handed over a finished product. We are good children. We were raised by the best!

Her final words to us (and that I now leave you with) were (and I quote): Despite everything, God is the father to the fatherless so to Him I leave you. Be strong in faith, live together in harmony. Do what you think will bring glory to God. Give towards God’s work and please shame the devil. Consult widely among yourselves and when it gets tough, go on your knees and pray.

She rests. The strongest, most loving, blessing we have received from God peacefully rests. And we give all thanks, all praise, and all glory to God for his perfect plan. Kazi ya Mungu haina makosa.

Amen.

How To Comfort The Bereaved

As I recover from what has been a living nightmare that was August 2013, I just need to write this down somewhere so that I never forget what to say or not to say to people that are bereaved. It's important. It must be done. So here goes. It's an article I found online and I've quoted the author at the bottom.

How to Comfort Someone

When a friend loses a loved one, our hearts ache for them. We want so much to comfort, soothe and make things better, yet we end up sputtering out the wrong words because we don’t know what to say when someone dies. “We’re trained not to discuss death,” says grief expert John Welshons, author of Awakening from Grief. “On top of that, we’re uncomfortable with silence, crying and sharing someone’s grief, so we try to fix grief instead.” Not only does that approach not work, but choosing the wrong words can cause more pain. Here’s why these nine common statements are particularly hurtful to grievers.

  You must be strong now. People need to fully express their grief before they can heal. Telling someone to pull herself together quickly isn’t helpful. “When my mother died when I was 12, everyone said, ‘Be strong. Take care of your dad,’” recalls David Kessler, co-author of On Grief and Grieving: Finding the Meaning of Grief Through the Five Stages of Loss with Elisabeth Kübler-Ross, MD. “They were all well-meaning, but what I could have used instead was people saying, ‘This is going to hurt, but I’m here for you.’” When in doubt, says Kessler, err on the side of silence. Sometimes the best thing to do is simply be there. “My co-author taught me if you’re not sure what to do, just listen.”

  Your loved one lived a good, long life. Some people think when someone lives to a ripe old age, there’s no cause for grieving when they pass away. But “the mourner is likely thinking, ‘However long I had my loved one wasn’t long enough,’” says certified grief counselor Marty Tousley, author of Finding Your Way through Grief: A Guide for the First Year. Gratitude for that long life may come later, she says, but in the beginning there’s only the agony of loss. Tousley says it’s important not to gloss over that and give the person who’s grieving a chance to share stories about their loved one.

  Everything happens for a reason. When you lose someone you love, it’s difficult to agree that his death was part of some grand cosmic plan. “We have to be careful not to make assumptions, as everyone reacts differently according to their age, gender, personality, culture, value system, past experience with loss and available support,” says Tousley. She suggests skipping clichés like this and instead giving the mourner some space to find her own answers. If you offer words, she says, try, “I hope I’m one of the people who comforts you in the weeks and months ahead.”

  I know exactly how you feel. Even if you’ve lost someone dear to you in the past, you can’t know exactly how someone else feels because you’re not in that person’s skin. Besides, trying to make a friend’s loss relatable to something you’ve gone through takes the focus off of their needs and places it on your experience. It might also end up offending. For example, you may have truly adored your dog who recently died, but equating that to losing a parent can sting. “You can’t compare losses,” says Kessler. “We can be in similar situations, but saying ‘I understand your loss’ gets us in trouble because we could be comparing a big loss with a small one.” Kessler says we’re better off just saying, “I love you and you’re not alone.”

  It’s time to put this behind you now (or don’t dwell on it). Loss can feel fresh for a while, so telling a grieving person to just get over it can sound cruel. “People think you should be done grieving after a year,” says Lori Pederson, who founded IDidNotKnowWhattoSay.com after she lost her mother. “But there are times when I still miss my mom—and it’s been 19 years.” She says we have to respect a person’s individual mourning process and also understand that grief can rise up on birthdays and holidays and from other reminders. “Grief isn’t something you get over,” says Pederson. “It’s something you learn to live with.”

  You’re still young. You can find another husband/have another child. A tragic loss—such as of a child or spouse at an early age—is an unbearable loss, but in wanting to help the mourner see that she can be happy again, we may say inappropriate things. “I knew a woman who lost her husband, and her mother said, ‘You can get married again,’” remembers Kessler. “I saw a devastated daughter but also a mother trying to help her daughter live the life her husband would have wanted her to live. Saying the wrong thing usually comes from wanting to help,” explains Kessler. Instead of focusing on the future, help that person celebrate the memory of her departed loved one by sharing a story about that person, he suggests.

  Let me know if you need anything (or call me if you need to talk). Mourners are often in an altered state, and they aren’t necessarily sure what they need, says Pedersen. Plus, they may not want to pick up the phone and burden others. When Pedersen lost her mom, friends showed up and figured out what was needed in the moment. Some people may feel that’s invasive, but Pedersen assures that visits and support with everyday chores are appreciated. “Clean the house, take the kids to school and go grocery shopping,” advises Pederson. Checking in on a person, and just sitting with them for a while, can go a long way, too, she says. Welshons adds that when his sister lost a child, she said the most helpful experience was having two friends come over every day and cry with her. It’s work for you to think of how to help, but it’s work worth doing.

  I'm sure you did all you could. Although you may feel you should acknowledge the heroic efforts of those who nursed loved ones through illness, refrain from saying this because you don’t know the full details of the relationship. What if the mourner resented the care- giving role, had a strained relationship with the deceased or feels guilty for not always being loving with the sick person? “I’ve only said it in cases where I was intimately familiar with how someone cared for a dying parent or spouse,” says Welshons. A better way to express this: “I’ve never seen anyone care for a loved one more completely than you have.”

  He’s in a better place now. After a long illness, it’s natural for us to feel relieved that the person isn’t suffering anymore. But the friend who lost a loved one may not be thinking along those same lines. Plus, they may not share your beliefs on what happens after death. “When a mourner hears that, they think, ‘a better place for my loved one is here, so why should I agree he should be elsewhere?’” Welshons suggests allowing them to share how the experience feels for them. “This is something most people won’t give a grieving person a chance to do, yet it’s one of the best things you can do to help.” 

Laurie Sue Brockway is author of Your Interfaith Wedding and Pet Prayers and Blessings. Read more: How to Comfort Someone - How to Help a Grieving Friend - Woman's Day

Her Name Was Sharolid

Abiria wote wa Maseno, Mumias, Migori, ingieni kwa hii basi ya Kisumu. Hakuna basi ingine inakuja, hii ndiyo itawapeleka". The obviously Luo voice rang over the microphone. I’m allowed to say that. Mimi ni mmoja wao as I came to realize sometime around the last general elections. The announcements were followed by a string of other efforts at humour. "Tafadhali usikubali kukula chakula kutoka kwa mwenye humjui barabarani. Mtu akitaka kukupatia sambusa hata kama uko na njaa aje, usikubali. Unaeza kuamkia Sambia." Yes Sambia, the country somewhere in Central Africa

See a week ago, my grandmother had called me and given me the description of the 20 year old who'd be sharing my house for a while. I was told to look out for a slender girl, with lines braided towards the back, wearing a purple skirt suit and carrying nothing. “Dana, onge gima oting’o?” (Grandma, carrying nothing?). Yes, carrying nothing. Apparently her ‘husband’ had discovered that she had acquired a city job and being against her leaving, he’d grabbed her bag, and she’d only just managed to jump onto a matatu for the trip to the bus stop in Busia. She was coming on the Busia bus. Easy Coach. She'd be arriving at 4pm. I needed to be there because she had never been to Nairobi. Never been to Nairobi? I'll take her!!! I can mold her into anything I want her to be, I can get her to become the best in the business. The endless possibilities. She never would need days off. She had no family to visit. And the biggest one, all she had asked for as her monthly wages was 2k. Two thousand Kenyan shillings. Heck! I gave her a welcome to Nairobi raise on the spot. “Nitakulipa 2,5. Two thousand five hundred shillings. As I planned the vain expenditure I’d incur with the extra cash I was now saving from my househelp salary budget line. I like that. I like her. And her Never-been-to-Nairobi. And so I picked her up.


"Gosh, don't be a victim like me!" Then they burst into their peals of laughter AGAIN. "Me I was used and then dumped. The stress!  You’re not seeing the way I've lost weight. I'm looking nice ya?" said the thinner taller one. I'll call her Dama. She looks like a Damaris. "Enyewe you look hot, your so thin." replied the shorter chubbier one called Shiro. She talked like a Shiro. She picks up her phone and checks her text messages impatiently. "Nowadays I'm wiser. Me I've found a bank. I'm going to milk him for everything he has. No more dating losers." I wondered if there was anywhere else I could have stood in the expansive bus park. Why on earth was I torturing myself with Dama and Shiro. But I couldn't budge. I stood still, and so did time. I wanted the jang’o guy to say it. Just say it. Add the bad jokes, but for crying out loud, just SAY IT! “Gosh how long have you been around? Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?” Dama replied sweetly, “Aki sweetie si you just know the way I am. Sipendagi kusema.” And yes, they laughed again. A happy duo these two were.


See I had this other househelp called Sarah. Well that's what we thought she was called, but really her name was Serapia Pascal Mlanga. She was my high maintenance expatriate househelp from Tanzania. She was the best. I thought. She could whip up some mean herbal chapatis and mandazis. She was easy on the eyes, and my baby absolutely adored her. When I got home from work, I was greeted with a polite curtsy, “Shikamoo Mama Nia”. She was sent straight from Househelp’s Paradise and I loved her to bits!! Still I blame her. I blame her for Nia's perfect Swahili and two words of English. I also blame her for making my child one of those estate children. You know the ones everyone knows. The barber, the charcoal guy, the kiosk guy, the bamba50 guy. See, I discovered that Serapia had fixed her eyes on the textile industry and was only just transitioning in the domestic world. And in my absence she had been hawking lesos door to door, Nia in tow, all over the estate. So sadly, the herbal chapatis and Serapia had to go.


"Now why isn't this guy replying. He is supposed to Mpesa me some cash. I gave him some fake story about how I need 2K pronto for some college thing." Insert Hi5's and more laughter here. "But today I'm going to kunywa till I drop!!!" Laughter again. Dama seems to admire Shiro's sneaky gold digging ways. I'm looking at both of them and wondering almost out loud, "Who is your mother?". Shiro continued, “Unajua niliamua kuachana na Jeff kwanini? Imagine he used to share with his mother everything. Imagine ata ma sisters wake walikuwa wanajua everything about us.” “Acha!” That was me in my head. But Dama’s answer couldn’t have been more predictable, “Anaezaje kufanya hivyo, kwani what’s wrong with men nowadays?” And on and on they went about these men nowadays and their shortcomings.


So back to that day, the Busia bus came, and I took my cornrowed purple-suited unbagged girl-child home. Then came the interview. “Uko na miaka ngapi?” She was 20. Wow! I did the math. She could give me uninterrupted years of hard labour for another 10 years. “Umesoma?” She had somad till Form Two. Good, so she could read the menus and chore schedules I had painstakingly prepared on Excel the day before. “Umewahi kufanya kazi na motto?” And the answer came, “Pia mimi niko na motto wa 3 years.” Drat. I had to recalculate. Now she’d need Christmas off to go and see her child. Instead of accompanying us on a trip to the Coast, where I’d relax and she’d work, chasing after my spirited toddler. Sigh. Maybe if I gave her 3K she wouldn’t need to go see her child? And home we went. And then the games began. "Mama Nia, unawasha hii aje?" That was the gas cooker. "Mama Nia, unatumia hii aje?" That was the toilet. "Mama Nia, unafungua hii aje?" That was the tap. "Mama Nia, unafunga hii aje?" That was a diaper. "Mama Nia, hii ni nini?" That's the television. "Mama Nia, hii kitu ni ya nini?" Thats the iron. I had to remind myself, that eventually it would pay off to have a loyal, never-been-to-Nairobi househelp. It will be fine, it will be fine.


"Abiria wote wa Kisumu, Maseno, Mumia, basi ndio hii." The voice rang over the microphone again. Scaring me back into reality. "Sharo, usijali. Tukishamalizana na hii mambo ya harusi, tutakupigia urudi." I lied. It was just one in the string of lies I had told that evening.


We had been doing the "hii ni nini?" routine for about 4 days now, and it was becoming apparent that my bid to develop Loyal Househelp 2.0 was failing. My patience had run out and I'd had it with eating boiled sukuma wiki. I wanted my herbal chapatis and chinese rice. But not with Serapia the Hawker. There had to be another way. Maybe I could take my purple-suited girl to cooking class. But then we'd still have to overcome the flushing the toilet part. That morning, my 8am sleep was interrupted by Nia's screams of "Moto! Moto!" I jumped out of my bed and ran to her direction. No, not a fire. Boiling hot water, and Nia in it, apparently taking a bath.


And that was it. Hours later Nia was safely on her way to Grandma's, and I sat down with HB and delivered the news. "Sharo, tumeamua tukuachishe kazi. Tuko na mambo mingi sasa za harusi, na Nia ameenda kuishi na Nyanyake, kwa hivyo hatukuhitaji. Panga vitu vyako, tukupeleke kwa basi." Her countenance changed in a split second. I didn't know what to expect. "Sasa nitapanga nini, na sikukuja na kitu?"


"Basi ya Kakamega, abiria wanaoenda Kakamega, saa mbili basi yenu ndio hii" rang the now familiar Jang’o voice. I swiftly made for the bus with her in tow. Forgotten are the stories of Dama & Shiro. She was first on the queue, and I was happy. They checked her ticket and she boarded. I told her I'd call to make sure she'd arrived safely. I lied. Again.


Her name was Sharolid.

Too Poor To Get Sick

If you are too smart to pay the doctor, you had better be too smart to get ill. ~African Proverb

A couple of months ago I had the displeasure of meeting The Kenyatta National Hospital. For many years, KNH has been nothing short of a bus stop to me. Well that, and a place to hang out with my sister and her doctor friends. I stepped into the eery building when she was in medical school and lived and worked there. Still, that wasn't quite like the encounter that I had two months ago.

My diabetic mother suffered a stroke while upcountry. Let me give you a picture of my family to help you understand how we ended up at KNH. I am the third born of five children. My two elder siblings live outside of the country and both are eking out a living especially given the recession and the toll it took on the outside world. This therefore makes me the eldest child present. Next on line is my sister; the doc. And then there is our baby brother who is in Uni.

My mom is a widow and retired. I stopped working full time last November. My sister just started a new job after graduating from med school. Between me and her, we are all the help that my mom can get. Because she is diabetic, we have been unable to get her private medical insurance as no one wants to cover an pre-existing condition. Even though we were willing to beg, borrow and steal to make sure she had some form of basic insurance.

Anyway, so this March day, we get a call from my Aunt and she says that my mom had a stroke while upcountry. By herself. I cannot believe how long that day was. We tried to figure out what to do. The nearest hospital was Bondo District Hospital. A government clinic really. With one or two medical staff at best. With no form of transportation available, we had to call an Uncle who lives in Kisumu, about 2 hours away, to rush to our home and take her to the hospital. How dramatic was that? Eventually, they settled on going to Kisumu Provincial Hospital so that she could get specialized care. While there, my sister managed to talk to the doctor who explained that he was releasing her to us, so that she could come to Nairobi to be admitted and treated.

So we quickly went through all the options available. She had no insurance. The treatment could be prolonged based on the initial prognosis. We didn't have the deposit needed to have her admitted at a private hospital, let alone the doctor's fees etc. Our best bet, was the infamous Kenyatta National Hospital. We consoled ourselves that if we got her into the private wing, it wouldn't be TOO bad.

We went ahead to the hospital to begin the process of checking her in as we waited for her to arrive. I will NEVER forget the horror of the Casualty department when we walked in. My sister was used to it. I, even in my wildest imagination, never thought it would be THAT bad. Patients lying on cold metal beds, some with drips, some bandages, some looked unconscious. Their relatives running after ANYONE in uniform. "Daktari, wangu ako na Meningitis". They called out the diseases that they thought would get the doctor's attention quickest and get them some help. I could not believe I had been so sheltered. So lucky to be born on the right side of town, where I could sit on a leather seat, watch DSTV, wait for a "ding-dong" and have my number called to be seen by a calm doctor, have tests done in a super way and walk out with my meds in hand.

My mom arrived at about 8pm. It would be another two-hour wait before her doctor arrived at the hospital. Thankfully, the strong jaluo woman in her convinced him that she could be an outpatient and refused to be admitted. Even more thankfully, she fully recovered after a few weeks (and was back on the bus to upcountry much to my chagrin).

Still, that trip taught me that we will all at one time or the other (unless you are Catherine Elizabeth Middleton William Louis George) have our Kenyatta National Hospital moment. That decisive moment when you will have to make a choice that lands you in a government hospital or clinic. Ever thought of where all the car-crash victims on Nairobi-Nakuru highway, or enroute to Mombasa are taken? Nope, not Nairobi Hospital. You may one day find yourself (God Forbid!) at Sultan Hamud District Hospital. Sharing a bed with two other people, in a facility with no CT Scan, no X-Ray machine, 1 professional doctor and two nurses, no private bathroom, no ambulance. And the only thing that will be standing between you and the afterlife, is a doctor. A Kenyan doctor.

Did you know that there are places in Kenya where the ratio of doctor to patients is 1:270,000? Did you know that the average Kenyan doctor working for the government earns Kshs40,000? Ever ask yourself why they quickly quit the government program after the mandatory year to move to the private sector, or out of the country? And you know what, I would do EXACTLY THE SAME THING. Okay, last one, did you know that the CT scan machine at Kenyatta National Hospital was outdated in the US, over 20 years ago?

Did I say last one? I have more. Did you know that some kidney failure patients are advised NOT to start dialysis, because they cannot sustain it on their income? It costs about 4,500 per session at KNH. You need three a week. Do the math.

Kenyans are simply, too poor to get sick.